


The Torment of Achilles

by sunnyday30 (solarlotus)



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Iliad - Fandom, The Song of Achilles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:24:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solarlotus/pseuds/sunnyday30
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Achilles deals with Patroclus' death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Torment of Achilles

From her tent, Briseis heard the deep, muffled voices of men approaching. She peeked out to look at the visitors, wondering who was still brave or foolish enough to seek Achilles’ company.

  
She saw the old and bent form of Phoinix leading Odysseus of Ithaca, followed by Automedon. Odysseus came alone, carrying wine and a bowl of figs as a gift for the Prince of Phthia. Briseis shook her head, he would not eat them. Nothing but a few bites of bread had passed his lips these past weeks. He dragged himself to the plains to battle the Trojans out of a desire for death; there was no point in strengthening himself with food.

  
~

  
Odysseus took a seat beside the now frail Phoinix. Phoinix had known Achilles since he was a baby and the strain of seeing him so tormented was aging the old man further. Achilles was diminished. On the battlefield he was still deadly, his limbs as swift and faultless as they ever were, his thin frame masked by his armour. But in his tent it comes as a shock to see the man who once stood so proud and handsome look worn and uncared for, more like a captive than a man who ended each day of battle victorious. Achilles’ hair was dirty, ragged where he had torn at it, he had not bothered to comb it, nor wash the dirt from his limbs. He was thin, ribs showing with only a strip of linen wrapped around his too small waist. Most shocking was his face: still magnificently made, but worn, its godlike luminosity gone, dark circles were under red, puffy eyes, and his jaw set as if braced against the pain of simply living.

  
‘Greeting, Pelides,’ Odysseus said, handing the wine and figs to Automedon, who laid them in front of Achilles. ‘I bring a token of peace.’

  
Achilles did not answer, he merely nodded and gripped the material he held in his lap. Phoinix and Automedon knew it was a tunic that had belonged to Patroclus. He was clinging to it like a child grasps its blanket.

  
‘Will you hear the Prince of Ithaca?’ Phoinix asked gently, signalling to Automedon to pour the wine. Achilles took a cup, but did not drink. It might have been good wine, it might have been bad. His senses no longer cared. His thumb gently stroked the tunic instead. ‘Achilles?’ Phoinix prompted.

  
‘He comes to beg me to fight, to beg forgiveness for the coward Diomedes, who does not dare show his face.’ Achilles voice was a terrible thing. It cut like a rusty saw, angry and jagged.

  
‘You have anticipated me I see,’ Odysseus said lightly. ‘I indeed come to apologise on behalf of all the Achaeans for the words of Diomedes. It was a joke between comrades, you must see that, he meant no offence to you.’

  
Achilles balled his fists remembering the crude joke, the insult he had felt. Not, as some thought at the insinuation he preferred men, but at the suggestion a slave could fill the yawning hunger left by Patroclus’ death.

  
‘He is lucky he still lives. If I thought he was a match for me I would have made him pay.’

  
‘You will still fight tomorrow.’

  
‘I will fight until I am dead. The gods willing, it will be soon.’

  
Odysseus was shocked at Achilles’ words, but recovered himself quickly, studied the younger man intently for a long moment and then looked around the tent. There were still two pillows on the bed and a carved figure sat on the pillow where Patroclus would have slept. A table was covered in purple cloth and on top of it sat the golden urn that held his ashes and a beautiful wooden lyre tipped with gold. Odysseus had heard Achilles refused to play these days. The men said all his music was for his love of Patroclus and without him he could not hear a melody or pluck a note.

  
‘You still grieve for your friend, but there is light and glory in this world for you still.’ Odysseus spoke gently and kindly.

  
‘Friend? You would come into my tent to belittle him so greatly? He was no mere friend, he was _philtatos_.’ Achilles struck his chest in emphasis, suddenly animated. ‘Patroclus was half my soul, the very best of men and most beloved of my heart as you well know!’

  
‘I know you loved him well. He was a good man.’

  
‘He was the best man that ever lived,’ was Achilles’ instant reply.

  
‘Will you not take a drink with me? I brought figs, I remember Patroclus telling me you liked them.’ Odysseus’ voice was gentle, there was sympathy in his creased face, perhaps concern even, beyond his anxiousness to ensure Achilles continued to fight the Trojans.

‘I can taste nothing anymore.’

  
Odysseus nodded and sipped his wine. Phoinix held his cup tight, his eyes darting from Achilles to Odysseus.

  
‘The prince finds food hard to bear and sleep eludes him, please excuse him, his grief does overwhelm him,’ Phoinix said, ever the diplomat.

  
‘As I see. It has been many weeks, yet I cannot chide him for it. I know what it is to love; my wife, Penelope, is dear to my heart, I could not bear to be upon the earth without her. I will leave you Prince Achilles and pray that the gods bring you peace.’

  
‘Then please pray for my death, for I will know no peace until I join the shades with my beloved Patroclus.’

  
‘I will drink to his shade and pray for your comfort,’ Odysseus said, raising his cup. Automedon and Phoinix followed and Achilles also drank this time. The wine was rich and barely watered, too heavy on his delicate, empty stomach. He sat for a few moments before dropping the tunic and bolting from the tent.

  
~

  
Briseis heard a man retching and grimaced. She then heard the low voices of Odysseus and Phoinix. She tentatively peered out of her tent, clutching the flap nervously as she watched Odysseus walk away from the camp. Automedon said something to Phoinix then turned around and saw her.

  
‘Have you seen where Achilles went? We think he is ill.’ Automedon was worried. His forehead was creased and he looked older than his tender years. He was most loyal amongst the Myrmidons and one of the few not to avoid his leader since the desecration of Hector’s body.

  
Briseis now knew who had been retching. ‘He is over there.’ She indicated the scrub behind the tent, a few moments later Automedon reappeared with Achilles close at his side wiping his mouth, his shoulders were slumped and he was almost leaning on the young charioteer. The moon cast a pale light on Achilles’ skin, even in his wretched state his skin glowed like a god’s. Briseis shrank back as they passed her and disappeared back into the tent.

  
A short while later Automedon left, followed by Phoinix. They were dismissed. And it began, the sobbing that she heard every night, the pained cries. Eventually he would quieten to sleep, though rarely did his sleep last until dawn. Briseis knew the cries would come again as he was started from his dreams and he called for Patroclus until his voice was worn out or tears choked him to silence.

  
Briseis cried at night too, it was an old habit for her, tears for her lost family, lost friends, killed by Greek spears. But she had found Patroclus, gentle and kind, who made her happy again. Now he was gone and she wept in the dark once more. Her friends in the camp were kind, their children kept her smiling in daylight hours, but at night she gave in to her grief, for the man she loved, the very best of Myrmidons.

  
~

  
Achilles knew there were no knives in the tent. Phoinix had had the good sense to order them to be quietly removed. Instead of attacking his flesh Achilles picked up the urn, caressed it and wept, the silent tears that flowed down his face making tracks in the grime on his skin.

  
After a time he put the urn down, his hand wandering to the lyre instead. He could hardly bear to touch it, more than anything else it held Patroclus’ spirit; it was his mother’s, had been with him always. Achilles loved the lyre, they had both treasured it. Achilles used to fill the air with sweet music late into the night. He had sung for the camp and put the stories of the men, those of Briseis and the tales of the ages, to sweet melody. But always he played for Patroclus first, for the eager joy on his face. He remembered the first time he had played for Patroclus, many years ago, how Patroclus had urged him to play more and he did, because he liked making the small, frightened looking boy, with the big sad eyes happy.

  
He knew now he should have been content with that, with making Patroclus happy. Patroclus didn’t need him to be famous or glorious in battle. He had loved him for his voice and his skill with the strings, he loved the way he moved in the summer sun, the way he had been a simply honest boy who spoke his heart. Achilles sank to his knees, anger bubbling in his gut. Anger at himself for his foolishness and pride in sending Patroclus into battle, for coming here in the first place instead of staying in Phthia, anger at his mother for filling his young head with dreams of everlasting glory. He sobbed aloud at the thought of Thetis and her disdain for his lover, his sweet Patroclus. She could have saved him, she could have pulled him back. What was the point in godhead, in a goddess for a mother if she could not do this? He let out an inhuman sound, like a wounded animal.

  
‘I’m sorry,’ he sobbed. ‘I’m so sorry. Patroclus, oh, Patroclus!’

  
~

  
Briseis hugged her knees to her chest as she heard the cries from the tent next door. She sighed and an image of Patroclus flashed before her, he was always smiling in her recollections. Sweet, kind Patroclus, who saved her from Agamemnon twice. She had wanted him for a husband, no other man could compare. He was a truly good man, handsome too. She allowed the smallest of smiles as she remembered his face, his strong jaw, deep brown eyes and wavy hair that would never sit flat.

  
Patroclus could never have been her husband, he had loved her, that she did not doubt. But he was already married in all but name, she was not even sure if he was interested in women at all; he and Achilles never touched the girls brought to the camp. Briseis did not understand his devotion to a man such as Achilles for a long time. To her, Achilles was a brutal man who killed without remorse. Only later did she see that underneath this warrior was a boy who loved to sing and play, who was full of mischief, who loved his companion with a sweet devotion that was plain to see. Not unintelligent by any means, but he was no politician and the games of the Greeks, the wiles of his mother, had ensnared him, tangled him in nets he could not free himself from.

  
Now she heard him wailing into the night, bereft and rootless in the world. He was a man half dead, his godlike body defying his wishes. His once beautiful hair hung limp and dull, he was a shadow of a man. But he deserved it, she told herself each night. He had sent Patroclus into battle that day, more concerned with his own glory than the life of the man he professed to love so much. Briseis had hated him for it, for his pride and selfishness, for his utter stupidity.

  
But as she heard Patroclus’ name wailed into the night she couldn’t hate him any longer, her heart was too tender. Had a man ever suffered more for his faults? And what of Patroclus, looking on from the shades? He could not bear to see Achilles suffer in life. Briseis knew Patroclus’ kind heart would break a thousand times to see Achilles’ torment and Patroclus’ heart was dear to her.

~

  
Achilles’ head jerked up sharply, he spun around reaching for the knife that wasn’t there, ready to punish whoever intruded. He blinked a few times at the small figure that stood before him.

  
‘What do you want?’ he rasped.

  
Briseis gulped, he was terrible to behold, as dangerous as an animal cornered and wounded, but not yet dead.

  
‘I come in peace, my lord, to offer comfort.’

  
‘What comfort can you bring me? You know I have no wish to bed you.’

  
‘That is not what I meant.’ Briseis bristled at his implication. She had remained virtuous all these years out of love for Patroclus, who she could not have, did he really think she would surrender herself so easily now?

  
‘I loved him too,’ she said, her voice trembling, ‘I loved him with all my heart, he was the best of men.’

  
‘He was, he was,’ Achilles cried, falling to his knees. ‘I cannot bear it, I wish only to go to the shade and be with him again. I cannot live without him.’

  
‘Patroclus loved you, he could not stand to see you suffer.’ Briseis shifted from foot to foot, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she watched Achilles lift his wretched eyes slowly to her. ‘I cannot bear to think of the pain he will have to see you like this.’

  
Achilles said nothing, but he reached for Patroclus’ tunic and pressed it to his face, inhaling deeply and sighing as the comforting scent of his beloved hit his senses.

  
‘He loved you well.’ Achilles voice was clearer now. ‘If he had wanted a wife I believe it would have been you.’ Achilles bowed his head, he felt a burden of guilt for Briseis that would gnaw at him, but for the grief that flooded all other emotions.

  
‘He was always yours, but I treasured his friendship more than any other.’ Briseis still stood stiffly by the flap of the tent. ‘Patroclus was the only Greek who did not bring suffering to these lands. He was the best man I ever knew.’

  
‘He was the best of men, the true Aristos Achaean.’ Achilles stood, pulled a tunic over his head in respect to Briseis and beckoned her to sit. It pleased him to hear Patroclus praised. ‘Do you want to eat? Drink?’

  
‘Only water,’ Briseis murmured, realising how dry her throat was. ‘Let me,’ she said as he turned to pick up the jug, looking disoriented.

  
Briseis settled on her favourite pile of cushions beside Achilles, they were purple and crimson with delicately embroidered designs, sent by Peleus for his godlike son. In all the years she had known Achilles she had been alone with him but twice. Patroclus had always been there, the thread that linked them, knitting their lives together.

  
‘What did Odysseus want?’ Briseis asked, curious about his earlier visit.

  
‘He wanted to make sure I would fight,’ Achilles said, his voice cracking like broken seashells. ‘Diomedes insulted me today when they were sharing out spoils. I was offered a girl and I refused her; he said I’d prefer a bit of . . . now that . . .you do not need to hear his words.’ Achilles balled his fists tightly and took a deep breath, trying to master his fury.

  
‘I never liked him, he is an animal,’ Briseis spat. ‘He is not fit to speak Patroclus’ name.’ Achilles nodded, then sat staring at the lyre, watching the candle light play on its golden tips.

  
‘You are the only person who realises he was better than me,’ Achilles finally said. Briseis looked at him, her brown eyes wide and unreadable. She did not think this was true, merely that only she was brave enough in her grief to tell him this. ‘Tell me why you loved him? I cannot bear that men do not praise him more, that he is not honoured as he should be.’

  
‘I loved Patroclus because he had the best heart I ever knew,’ Briseis said simply. She sighed, sipped her water and Achilles listened. He listened to her tell how Patroclus dressed her wound when she was first brought to the camp; how he taught her Greek; how he made her laugh when she was sad; how they walked in the woods and swam in the sea.  
‘I missed him when he went to the white tent, but I know that it was good that he did, that he was good at what he did. He saved many lives and much pain.’ Briseis exhaled deeply, Patroclus cared for all the men that came before him, no matter what they were like outside that tent. She saw Achilles nod.

  
‘He was taught by Chiron, with me. I think Patroclus was the worthier pupil.’

  
_So do I,_ Briseis thought, but she did not say it. Instead she thought of the children he helped deliver into the world. ‘He was good with childbirth too, so calm and kind. The women all wanted Patroclus to be there.’

  
Achilles almost smiled at this. ‘You should have seen him after the first time, I thought he would faint. I don’t think he knew what had happened, Chiron didn’t teach us that. He liked it though, new life coming.’

  
‘I wanted a child, you know.’

  
‘You may still have one, you are not very old, twenty-five perhaps?’

  
‘Twenty-six,’ Briseis corrected. ‘But no, I will not have children. I wanted a child with Patroclus.’

  
‘I know, he told me.’ Achilles looked at the floor, he felt the prickles of guilt in his chest. ‘I told him it would be all right, that he could if he wanted to. I would not have denied him a child.’

  
‘He loved you, he could not have lain with anyone else. He did not love me in that way I think.’ Briseis swallowed down her regret, she could not resent Patroclus for this, or Achilles. It was not Achilles’ fault after all.

 

‘I am sorry,’ Achilles said softly. He had noticed how her accent became stronger when she was upset.

 

‘I offered him both . . . that he could have me as his wife and still have you. But he did not . . . he loved you too much.’

  
‘I will not say I am not glad, I know I am a selfish creature. I told him he could, but when he said he only wanted me my heart soared. I was so relieved I held him all night. I could not bear to share him, though I would not deny him a child when I have one myself.’

 

‘You have a child?’ Briseis was incredulous, she had never heard this spoken of, her mouth was hanging open, she quickly shut it, her mind racing. ‘Who? When?’ she blurted before propriety could stop her.

 

‘Phyrrus, he is twelve. My mother is raising him, he is better with her.’

 

‘Who is his mother?’ Briseis knew it was not her place to pry, but she could not help herself. She momentarily forgot about Patroclus, such was her surprise at this most unexpected news.

 

‘Princess Deidameia of Scyros. I was very young,’ he said by way of explanation, staring guiltily at his hands. ‘It was . . . it was not something I chose willingly,’ he finally said. ‘My mother . . . my mother wanted it.’

  
‘But you did not?’

  
‘No, I had been taken to Scyros by my mother, to hide me from the war. Patroclus had not yet found me. She said if I did what she wanted she would tell Patroclus where I was. I was a fool, she did not tell him.’ There was a bitterness in his voice that cut like a blade, she heard him shudder, trying to suppress the tears that threatened him again.  
Briseis nodded, she believed him. It would sound an unlikely story from anyone else, but she had never known Achilles to lie, nor to look at a girl. She saw how the memory pained him and wished she had not asked. She had come to talk about Patroclus.

  
‘You were so lucky, Achilles. You woke every day to his face,’ she whispered, trying to draw the conversation back to the man they both loved.

  
‘I should be with him now. I cannot bear to sleep alone, it feels so cold.’ He wrapped his arms around himself drawing his knees to his chest. ‘Tell me, what did you love most about him?’

  
‘He was so kind and so gentle. He was kind to everyone he met, but it was not a weakness. He was strong and honourable and he did the right thing, even when you did not. He had more strength in his heart than is in your spear arm. Patroclus was more precious than all the treasure in Troy. He did not need to come back covered in the blood of Trojans, dragging girls from their beds, to be a man. He did not need to be promised eternal glory or riches, he was not vain, though he was handsome. He was more of a man than any of you Greeks, he had true strength and love in his heart.’

  
Achilles listened, despite her reproach of him. It warmed his heart to hear her speak of the Patroclus he knew and loved. The other captains only talked of how he killed Sarpedon, but that was not him. He had hated war. Briseis knew the man he remembered and hearing her talk brought him closer to his spirit than all the hours he had spent clinging to his tunic.

  
‘Tell me something now,’ Briseis finally said, exhausted with constant talking.

  
‘What would you like to know?’ Achilles asked, wondering if he would be able to answer her question.

  
‘Why did you choose him for your companion all those years ago? He never truly knew; you were children so it could not have been love, not then.’

  
Achilles looked at her, surprised. He had expected her to ask him to tell her tales of their time on Pelion, or something inconsequential, he did not after all know Briseis like Patroclus did. He considered her question, cupped his chin in his hands.

  
‘He interested me, surprised me,’ Achilles finally said. ‘Patroclus was fostered by my father, he had been exiled for accidently killing a boy. He was a small, miserable thing, the other boys shunned him and I pitied him. All the boys tried to impress me, tell me they’d done this or that. He barely even looked at me, I found that strange, and interesting too I think, I wanted him to notice me because I noticed him, more and more the more he ignored me.

  
‘One day he stopped going to drills. I sought him, for I knew he would be whipped. When I found him he did not answer as I expected him to. He told me what to do instead. Nobody had ever told me what to do before, except for my mother and father. It surprised me that he would do this. He said that I could say he had been with me, but I didn’t like to lie to my father, so he said take me with you. And I did. He came to my lyre lesson and I played for someone else for the first time in my life.

  
‘I had always played for my own pleasure you see, but I saw the music pleased him, so I played and played until his eyes were happy. Then I knew I wanted him as my companion.’

  
Achilles smiled as he remembered the scrawny boys they had been then, innocent, more interested in what was for dinner than battles and glory.

  
‘You are going to ask me when I first loved him.’ Achilles smiled again softly. Briseis said nothing, she let him talk for he had smiled for the first time since Patroclus died. He wanted to tell her so she nodded and sipped at her water.

  
‘I always loved him, he was the first real friend I’d ever had. We talked all day and half the night, I never tired of him. He showed me things I did not know and told me of places I had never seen. I showed off I think, I wanted to impress him, I wanted him to think well of me. I do not know when I fell in love, we were very young. But I know I never looked at other boys or girls. By the time we were sixteen we were lovers. I wish it had been sooner, I wanted him for a long time. I was afraid of my mother.’

  
‘Was your father angry?’ Briseis couldn’t imagine such a thing going unpunished in her own village.

  
‘No, why should he have been? It is common enough to love a fellow man. My mother, she . . .’ Achilles could not bring himself to speak of Thetis and her hatred for Patroclus. ‘She never approved,’ he said with a harsh finality in his voice.

  
‘I am glad your father was not angry,’ was all Briseis could think to say. She was remembering how anxious Patroclus became when Achilles visited his mother, how his dark brows would knit together and his fingers twist around each other, but to speak ill of a goddess could only cast doom upon her and whoever else the gods would hurt to punish her.

  
‘He was fond of Patroclus, he is a good man.’ Achilles sighed. ‘I wish, I wish so much . . .’ his voice faltered, tears choking his throat. ‘I wish we had never come. I should have stayed with my father and Patroclus in Phthia, glory be damned. What use is my fame and glory? I should have stayed with him, I wish I had listened to Patroclus, not my father or Odysseus. Even my mother tried to stop me.’

  
Achilles wept again now, soft tears rolling slowly down his cheeks, shining in the dim candle light. Briseis watched him, he was a broken man. Grief, regret and bitterness had crushed him. She moved out of instinct, reached for him and drew him to her. Achilles did not resist, his head fell on her chest and she held him, comforting him as a mother soothes her child. It was a strange feeling for her to have a grown man in her arms, especially one so deadly.

  
Achilles knew now why Patroclus loved her. There was a comfort in her soft bosom that he had never known. He had no memory of being held by a woman in this way. He wrapped an arm around her and did not lift his head until he could feel the wetness of her dress, soaked from his tears.

  
‘Sorry,’ he finally mumbled, embarrassed by the way her skin showed through the wet cotton. Briseis smiled softly. It was all right, she was good at drying eyes and giving comfort.

  
‘You should sleep,’ Briseis told him gently. Achilles nodded, she had never seen him look so childlike, strands of hair were pressed to his wet face. Briseis ushered him to his bed and turned away as he undressed and slipped under the blanket. When she looked at him again he was sitting in bed holding a wooden figure.

  
‘Look,’ he said, showing her. ‘Patroclus made it for me for my sixteenth birthday.’

  
Briseis ran a gentle finger over the carving. It was of a boy playing the lyre, his face tilted to the sun. It had been well cared for over the years, Achilles did not need to say that he treasured it.

  
‘It is me,’ he said softly, he was remembering the wide grins they both wore when it had been given, how he was full to bursting with figs, how he had loved and wanted Patroclus so much he thought he would burst.

  
‘I know,’ she whispered with a smile. ‘It is beautiful.’

  
‘Those days on Pelion were the happiest I have ever known, we were both so happy, especially when we . . . when we became lovers.’ Achilles pressed the ash wood to his lips and closed his eyes. He was trying very hard not to cry again. Briseis put her hand over his and stroked her thumb over the skin. His hands were impossibly smooth, soft and delicate, but she could feel their quick strength too.

  
‘Perhaps you can go back?’ Briseis suggested softly, ‘Go to Chiron, leave this place and take his ashes to the mountain.’ She liked the idea of Patroclus resting somewhere far from this war, where he had been happy.

  
Achilles shook his head. ‘I will stay here until I am dead, it will be soon I hope. Hector is dead, I cannot escape my fate and I do not wish to.’

  
‘Then sleep and dream of Pelion,’ Briseis said, her voice like a song soothing him. He lay down and she pulled the blankets around him. Achilles closed his eyes. She was still holding his hand, she could not believe they were so deadly when she felt his warm, soft skin and saw his delicate veins.

  
Achilles slowly drifted to sleep, his breathing became deep and even. It was the most peaceful sleep that he’d had since Patroclus died. He dreamt of Pelion, of the lush mountain and the rose quartz cave, of Chiron and of the boy he loved, so full of life and happiness.

  
When she was sure he would not wake Briseis quietly returned to her own tent. She did not sleep. She could not stop thinking about Achilles and Patroclus, about all each meant to her. She feared for Achilles. God born or not he would die soon, the prophecy said so and he willed it. What would happen when he was gone? Would Agamemnon take her again? Or would she be taken back to Phthia if the Myrmidons left? If Patroclus were alive, if Achilles were alive even, she would have no fear of this, but without them at whose mercy would she be? Or would the Greeks be defeated without their demigod fighting? Then would she be free to go home?

  
Briseis didn’t even know where home was anymore, the village she grew up in was gone. She spent her days speaking Greek now, she had felt one of them as much as a Trojan when Patroclus had been there. She wondered if they would welcome her, having lived so long amongst the Greeks.

  
Briseis watched the sunrise from the flap of her tent. Pale light seeped from the edge of the sky, the orange sun slowly flowered over the sea. Achilles had slept all night, there were no anguished cries in the early hours. Briseis sighed softly, hugging her knees, Patroclus would be pleased he had slept. Perhaps she would go to him again tonight and offer him comfort again, in honour of the memory of her beloved friend.

  
~

  
Briseis was sleeping when the men returned that afternoon. They were strangely quiet today, but there was an eerie song, like a drawn out cry, but more lyrical. She stood up quickly, knew that this could not be good news. She saw the nymphs before anything else. They were the brightest thing on the beach, paling all the men by comparison, even the great princes and kings of Greece who walked behind them. They were singing a lamentation and weeping. She knew before she saw the body that it was Achilles.

  
She watched as they washed him in the nectar of the gods, wove flowers in his hair. It shone again, the golden crown atop his beautiful face. She felt frozen, as if watching through water. The other men and women were also still and quiet, there was no weeping and wailing as there had been over Patroclus. The nymphs were keeping the men back and besides, Achilles’ grief had made him cruel, only Phoinix rocked quietly beside the ever-loyal Automedon, tears slipping down his ancient face.

  
~

  
Briseis watched Achilles’ face as they lay him on the pyre, he looked peaceful, like a perfectly carved statue, almost too beautiful to behold. Automedon had told her what had happened, an arrow from Paris’ bow. He had worn no armour and had walked beneath the city walls as if begging for death.

  
They are together now, Briseis thought, Patroclus will not be alone anymore. When a tear fell it was not for Achilles, who had the goddesses of the sea to weep for him, it was for herself, for with him gone the strongest thread that tied her beloved Patroclus to the earth frayed ever thinner.

  
Briseis turned and walked back to the camp. She was needed, by the other women of the camp, by their children and husbands. By the family Patroclus had built for her when he told Achilles to ask for the girls. This was his gift to her, she realised, people to love and care for. A young boy ran to her, calling her name, she smiled at him and laughed as he almost stumbled in the sand in his haste to greet his favourite ‘aunt’. It was a great gift indeed from the best of Myrmidons, Patroclus of Greece.


End file.
